Still the Same
by rainbowseagull
Summary: In the middle of Faust, Christine flees the Opera House. Erik, of course, gives chase. When he finds her, however, things are much different than he expected. As for Christine, she has trouble even remembering what she expected. E/C, Leroux
1. Prologue

**RS: **Well! All of a sudden I got a whole bunch of reviews and follow for Sugar High. I... admit I was really surprised about that. And I'm really, really sorry for starting a new story, but I couldn't get this one out of my mind. In regards to Sugar High, I will begin writing again. However, it's been...seven months, I think? And it'll take some time for my to get the story going where I want it to again, if that makes sense. I do hope I can finish it though. Anyways, here's my new story, which was inspired by I Dreamt I Dwelt In Marble Halls. Before you go on thinking you can guess the plot from the opera it comes from, let me just say I have no idea what the story for The Bohemian Girl is, though one day I'd like to take a listen to it.

* * *

No one in the audience could deny that Christine Daaé's Marguerite was the best they had ever seen. It was her first time in the role since the gala, even though many had wished to see her on the night when Carlotta lost her voice. It was certainly worth the wait, however. Now, at the start of act five, the audience eagerly awaited the next appearance of the new Marguerite.

Two audience members, especially.

Raoul de Chagny tapped his fingers impatiently in his private box. It made him feel better to see Christine on stage, where he knew she was safe. When he could see her, he could relax. And, as soon as the opera was over, he could finally take her away from this place, and see to her safety elsewhere. Sweden, perhaps. She had always loved Sweden...

Concealed from the performers, the Opera Ghost also awaited Christine's next appearance. Erik would take her away... Yes, he would whisk her away before the end, for no should be expecting it. Christine would become his bride before the end of the night... before the end of the opera! Erik's eyes rested on her form in the wings. _Soon, and Erik shall be a married man!_

Soon, yes. Raoul sat forward in his seat. He was familliar with the story of the opera. Soon, and Marguerite would appear in a vision to Faust. Ah! No other could compare to Christine, who was a vision in ordinary life.

Dawn was approaching. This was when Raoul would see his Christine again, and be assured of her safety. Then the prison scene, and the opera would finish, and the two of them could leave forever. Raoul wondered at how their life after the ordeal would be. If Christine wanted to continue singing, he wouldn't stop her. He cared not what the gossip would say, though he hoped Christine would not be offended. Then again, maybe they would leave France forever, and there would be no one to gossip about them. He would change his name. They would start again, far away. He smiled dreamily and turned his attention back to the opera.

A light grew brighter in the corner of the stage. Raoul felt his heart flutter in anticipation of Christine's entrance. Faust turned, the light shone to its full brightness, and a collective sound of confusion rose from the audience. Where was Marguerite? _Where was Christine?_ Raoul stood up in his box, terror evident in his eyes. His brother glanced at him in confusion and shock.

"You meant to run off with Christine. Where has she gone?" he pressed. Raoul shook his head hopelessly.

"I don't know! _He _must have taken her. I shall never find her!" As he said this, Raoul flew from the box into the hallways, intent upon finding Christine safe and unharmed. The managers refused to help him, busy with some investigation involving a safety-pin, the police laughed him off, and the stage hands merely rolled their eyes, obviously grouping him in with the countless others who had approached seeking news of the missing soprano. He pushed through crowds of performers, not even sure of where he was going or what he was hoping to do. A hand took hold of his arm.

Raoul looked into the green eyes of the Persian. "Erik has taken her."

The Viscount fell to his knees and wailed Christine's name, a performance worthy of the stage. If the nobleman had not been so upset by the recent events, and he cannot be faulted for being upset, then he might have heard the shriek of a chorus girl. A blonde chorus girl, to be precise, who had a build similar to that of Christine.

The girl had befriended Christine in the days before the "angel" visited her, after which Christine distanced herself from all company. Before the opera began, she had been asked by the soprano herself to switch costumes with her in the confusion between acts four and five, and to stand off in the shadows somewhere. When question later, the girl revealed that Christine seemed upset and desperate to leave, and, pitying her for whatever had happened, the chorus girl quickly agreed to help her old friend. She also recounted seeing a dark shape pass before her after Christine's disappearance was realized, and reported feeling something close around her neck before vanishing.

It would be several months before the police would learn what happened to the young soprano.

Erik stormed out of the Opera, anger and fear battling for dominance. Christine left, and he felt anger. Christine left without the boy, and he felt confusion. Christine left _alone,_ and he felt overwhelming fear. He appeared suddenly in front of the driver of the nearest brougham and grabbed him by the collar.

"A woman. Did a woman enter a carriage within the last five minutes?" he growled. The driver looked up at him in terror.

"Y-yes, sir, blonde. H-headed out of the c-city," he stammered.

"Many thanks," Erik sneered, and dropped the driver back into his seat. He disappeared to the nearest entrance to his lair, and called for César. The horse recognized the urgent tone in his Master's voice, and arrived in less than two minutes. Far too long, in Erik's mind. He mounted the horse and set off, heading south at a dangerously fast pace.

_Christine will head south, because she knows that Erik knows that her home is in the north. Ah, but Christine, he knows how you think! And he will find you... he will have you... Christine..._


	2. Chapter 1

**RS: **Thanks for all the reviews! I had some free time in class today and permission to use my laptop, so I had time to write.

* * *

Christine glanced at the sky, the ground below her moving too fast for her to watch. It made her feel worse than she already did. As she took in the view above her, the sky suddenly didn't give her any comfort either. When she had left Paris perhaps twenty-four hours ago, it had been a sunny day, with very few clouds. Now, however many miles south of Paris she was, the sky was gray with clouds that looked as if they would drop their load any minute.

There were, of course, small villages that she could easily stop in, but Christine wanted to wait until she was at least three days away from Paris before stopping for too long, and she was sure that rain would keep her from leaving. She slowed her horse as she approached a village balancing the pros and cons of stopping. _Two more hours, and if it still looks like rain, I'll stop, _she told herself. She passed the village by.

More than once during her flight, she contemplated getting rid of the carriage and simply riding the horse. It would be faster, but she also didn't want to leave the carriage behind in one of the villages she had stopped in. If Erik had gone north, he would surely head south once he learned that her carriage was found south of Paris. Christine couldn't be sure that he didn't have ears this far from Paris, and didn't want to take any risks.

Guilt was pushed aside as she drove her horse forward. God only knew how Raoul felt right now... And as for Erik... Christine desperately hoped that he hadn't done anything. If it meant he was already on her trail, so be it. She only hoped he had thought to go the other way. Poor Erik...

_No. You will not feel guilty. You needed this, Christine. Time... away from everything._

* * *

César's hooves left noticeable traces in the road. It was of no concern to Erik. The horse galloped on. Every minute was another minute that Erik was without Christine. When Christine was alone...or worse, perhaps she was no longer alone. Perhaps, another man... Erik's grip on the reins tightened.

Christine had certainly done her best to hide her tracks. Not literally, of course, for there was so many tracks in the road it would have been more suspicious if she had wiped out her tracks. Christine did made it quite difficult for Erik to figure out which roads she had taken, however. When passing through populated area, she must have remained hidden, and appeared to have stayed near other groups leaving Paris, so that no one paid any special attention to her. Erik estimated that he was now half a day behind her at the most, when in the start he had been only ten minutes behind her. It was frustrating as well as unusual for Erik.

Despite this, he had the advantage of not having a carriage attached to his horse, and he was quite certain he was travelling on the same road as her. In addition to this, the road was long, and if she chose to bypass the last village, the nearest one would be a few hours away. Given that it was only just past noon, he guessed that she would want to continue onward. And then he would have her.

Looking at the sky, he worried that the clouds would send her back to the village. Then, Erik realized that if she stopped there to avoid the rain, then logically she would remain in the village until the sky cleared. Because she was fleeing, Erik assumed that she would want to cover as much distance as possible. Deciding that it was more likely for her to have remained on the road, he passed the village when he came to it. Drops of rain fell onto the road. Erik pulled his cloak tighter and continued on.

* * *

The rain was falling considerably harder than it had been earlier. The last village, however, was too far away. Christine began to worry when she noticed that the sun was about to set. How far was the nearest village? She urged her horse to go faster, uncomfortable with the idea of having to be out on the road at night.

Again, she considered simply leaving the carriage. It wasn't as if she needed it for anything. It had simply already been attached to her horse, and she had been in too much of a rush to leave Paris to realize that it would only be a burden.

Christine heard hooves behind her. She felt a stab of fear. _Thieves? Criminals? _"Faster, Marie," she whispered, hoping that there was a town or village near. Her horse picked up speed, sending muddy water splashing so high as to wet the hem of her dress. Ah, if she had been playing Siébel, it would have been so much easier to travel! _But more noticeable as well, _she reminded herself. The sounds were coming steadily closer.

The sun was level with the ground now. She blinked and squinted, struggling to make out the shapes in front of her. Raindrops clung to her eyelashes, and she raised a hand to wipe her face dry. Too late, she saw a turn in the road and frantically tried to turn. Marie's hooves lost their grip on the road. She skidded across the dirt, and behind her, the carriage only made things more difficult. There was a snapping sound from the carriage. All hope of regain control lost, horse, carriage, and soprano tumbled onto the grass by the road. Christine heard the carriage splinter into pieces and had the time to thank God that she was not in it before she felt her head hit something hard.

* * *

The rider who had so frightened Christine was, of course, Erik.

He had easily identified Christine's carriage by the way she drove it. A wave of relief and anger washed over him all at once. He instructed César to go faster, alerting Christine to his presence. No matter. Her Marie had no chance of outrunning him, especially with the carriage. He would have her, and she would explain everything to him. Christine's carriage picked up speed. Erik watched as the horse and the wheels lost their grip on the ground. All anger was forgotten as Erik saw the carriage spin out of control. He saw her shape fall to the ground, and was thankful that the carriage had decided to go the other way.

Erik slowed César to a stop and leapt off the horse, running to Christine. Heart hammering, he quickly checked her vital signs, relaxing slightly. She had hit her head, and that would leave a bump, but she would survive. Marie, though anxious, appeared to be uninjured, as she had somehow broken free of the carriage before it crashed. He removed the broken pieces, quickly brushed some mud and grass off the horse, and lifted Christine's unconscious form onto her. After mounting the horse behind her, he directed her over to César, who was waiting patiently.

"Follow us, César," Erik instructed, wrapping his cloak around Christine. Trembling slightly, Erik set off in the same direction, with César following obediently behind. The nearest village was about a half hour away. It would be quite simple to convince a family to vacate their home while Christine recovered.


	3. Chapter 2

**RS: **Hello! Thank you all again for the reviews! They make me smile. ^-^

* * *

She heard footsteps. A sort of clinking-pots, maybe? A plate? The footsteps and the clinking grew louder. Then the clinking stopped and the footsteps faded. Silence. A sigh. Angry, or sad? It was hard to tell.

Christine-yes, that was her name- groaned and pushed herself up into a sitting position, blinking blearily. Her head was throbbing. She ran a hand over the couch she had awoken on. It was soft, and probably expensive. That, however, did not assist her in figuring out where she was. After several moment of trying to make out the shapes around her, she realized that the lights were dimmed quite a bit. Christine searched her memory, looking for something, anything that might help her figure out where she was.

She made a panicked sound when she was unable to remember almost anything at all.

Something flashed in the corner of her eye, and she turned her head. There were two yellow lights glowing softly in the corner of the room, and she was wondering if it was some new fashion for lamps when they suddenly _blinked._

She squeaked, and groped around desperately for some sort of weapon. Nothing, but she had not really been expecting to find a dagger on the very couch she had been sleeping on. Christine turned her body to face the lights- _eyes-_ and reached behind her. She felt a table, and quickly extended her arm back in hopes of finding something useful. Her hand touched something wet and hot, and she drew her hand back quickly, her eyes never leaving the corner of the room.

"Forgive me, Christine, I was not expecting you to wake so soon. The soup is still quite hot," the yellow eyes said, in a man's voice.

_Soup. _Quickly, Christine turned around, snatched up the spoon, and spun back around to face the man. She jumped. Somehow, he had moved across the room within those few seconds and was now situated right in front of her. Her head was spinning again, due both to the shock of seeing someone move so fast and to the speed she had turned her body.

"Do I know you?" she demanded shakily. _I cannot make out his face, even from this distance! Yet his voice...but no, I still can't remember. _

"Do you know me?" the man repeated, sounding shocked, hurt, and angry all at the same time. "Does Christine know me?" he repeated again, mockingly this time. Suddenly, he burst into laughter, sending Christine shrinking as far back into the couch as possible. "Ah, this is how Christine chooses to play! She leaves her poor Erik, and pretends to have forgotten him when he demands the answers he is due. But there is no fooling him, for how could _anyone _forget a face like Erik's?" the man spat. The volume of his voice brought a new wave of pounding in her skull. He brought his face closer to hers, and Christine found that she could not shrink back any farther without tipping the couch over.

The short distance, however, did give her the chance to see his face despite her poor eyesight. Or, rather, his lack of. Shiny, black material met her eyes in the place of skin and normal facial features. Fear struck her as she realized he was wearing a mask.

"Please, monsieur, I'm not pretending! I can't remember anything! Don't hurt me, monsieur, please," she pleaded, wishing he had brought her a steak instead. Spoons were not the most efficient weapons.

The masked man, Erik, sprang back at her words. "Hurt you? Oh, he would never!" Erik insisted, and fell to the ground at her feet. "Is Christine's image of Erik so poor, so twisted by the words of her boy, that she cannot remember how gentle he was before? He can be that again!"

Christine sighed in frustration and in discomfort. She never liked being above someone like this, or, for that matter, below them. Somehow, however, she did not feel that requesting for him to stand up would help her cause at all. "But that is exactly what I am saying, Monsieur Erik, I remember nothing! Nothing, except a few melodies and names that I cannot give faces!" she exclaimed. She pressed a hand to her forehead, groaning. "There is a Richard. A Raoul. A Jammes. And a tune," she hummed something softly. "But they have lost their meaning."

Erik cocked his head to the side. Silence fell over him for several moments, almost a minute. Then, "You... You have lost your memory?" Christine nodded slightly. "You have forgotten Erik." Another nod. "You require rest. You injured your head, and that is why it is hurting you right now. The soup should have cooled down by now. Erik will leave you alone to rest." Bowing gracefully, the man disappeared so quickly that Christine wondered if she had imagined him.

* * *

Erik left a slightly bewildered Christine in the living room, retreating to the room he had claimed as his own. The house had not been too difficult to secure. Originally, the couple who lived in the house were shocked to find a masked man supporting an unconscious young woman at their doorstep. The woman even thought that she would be able to alert the authorities if she wanted to. Ha! A few threats and some money, however, quickly sent them on a two-month vacation to a relative's home. He was sure that would give Christine plenty of time to recover, and was decorated in a way he was sure she would favor.

The house suited Erik as well. It was removed from the rest of the village, but was close enough for Erik to obtain supplies. For the time being, there was enough soup in the house already, and he had not had to make a trip to the village yet. There were no neighbors to intrude, and Erik had spent the time quietly tending to Christine.

Christine's awakening had been a surprise. Erik had not expected her to come to so early. He had not actually intended for her to eat the soup. Erik had simply been practicing his cooking, as he had very little reason to work on that particular skill, considering his lack of a nose. When she opened her eyes, he found himself unprepared. Falling into the easiest emotion for him to express, Erik became angry. He had wanted to be intimidating, to scare her into revealing what the purpose of her flight was, but the genuine look of confusion in her eyes only raised concern in him. Then, she spoke the names of her boy, her friend, and the manager in the same, indifferent tone. She hummed the duet from Othello without fear, without any hint of remembrance of the night when everything fell apart. And he knew.

Christine's accident had cost her her memory.

To another man, this might not have been so exciting. It would be a cause for worry. Another man, a good man, would helped her, would tell her things she had done in an attempt to restore her memory.

That man was not Erik.

Good deeds and evil deeds meant nothing to him. It was rare for him to feel guilt, for he performed both with such regularity that he could not longer tell the difference. In fact, the only times he had ever felt guilt in the past few decades were when he frightened Christine those nights in the house by the lake. His conscience did not stop him from lifting a pen and scribbling notes on a sheet of paper, for his conscience had been silent for so long that it had forgotten how to do its job.

The pen flew across the page, fantasies he had never before allowed himself to hope for, even while planning her abduction. Erik had nothing to stop him from creating his own version of Christine's life, there on a few sheets of paper that didn't belong to him, in a house that wasn't his. He wrote stories for the girl in a different room.

Stories that would finally make her his.


	4. Chapter 3

**RS: **This one took longer than I thought. I rewrote it a couple times in between a whole bunch of projects for various classes. It's kind of short, but I didn't want to make it longer than it needs to be. Oh, and happy Valentine's Day!

* * *

Christine gently set the now-empty bowl down on the table. She had argued to herself back and forth, trying to decide whether or not the soup was safe to eat, before her stomach made the decision for her. It didn't seem as if the stranger in the mask wanted to poison her, anyway.

It was over an hour since Erik disappeared to another room. Occasionally, Christine heard the sounds of paper being forcibly torn, then a crumple and the light thump of a rejected piece hitting the floor. They were more infrequent now, leading Christine to believe that Erik was making less errors in his work, whatever that might be. She frowned, poking at her mind in a vain effort to remember anything about the strange man, and whether or not he posed any sort of danger.

His voice was certainly something, when she wasn't being frightened by him. Surely she couldn't forget something like his voice! After several moments of concentrating on it, she gave up and accepted that she really couldn't remember anything. Erik's voice was simply like words, she decided. She knew it, but she was clueless as to _how _she knew it.

Bored and uncertain of whether or not Erik would take kindly to her snooping about the house, Christine stretched herself out of the couch and began to daydream. Maybe she was actually a princess, and Erik was her guard. Or, she could have been about to marry a prince, but was caught in that accident and a well-meaning if eccentric resident rescued her, and now she was late for the wedding she could not even remember! She might have been off to an unhappy arranged marriage, and was kidnapped. Her speculations grew grander by the minute. Perhaps is was vain of her to imagine her life as such, but she had nothing else to do.

"Maybe my life is worthy of a book! An opera, even!" she laughed to herself. Something about the notion of her life being made into an opera made her smile. _How silly. Surely my life hasn't been quite that dramatic. _

She yawned and stretched herself, hanging her head upside-down over the arm rest. Her hair fell over the side of the couch, and she swished it from side to side, listening to it brush against the floor. Christine looked around, enjoying the view of the decor from the new angle. This time, however, the room was not empty. A pair of yellow eyes was watching her with... amusement? Immediately, she straightened herself into a more respectable position. "Good afternoon," she said cautiously. Surely he hadn't been there for very long. She didn't hear a thing!

He blinked, an action which was clearly visible because the rest of him was in shadow. "You are being friendlier. Have you remembered you Erik, perhaps?" the masked man asked.

Christine shook her head sadly. "I have tried. If I could not remember you, with your voice and your... Ah, well, If I could not remember you, I think it is time I gave up trying for now." As soon as the words left her mouth, she began to pray that he didn't feel insulted by that.

For a few uncomfortable seconds, Erik merely watched her, before separating himself from the shadows in a curious manner. "Perhaps you require assistance in remembering?" he suggested, sweeping the remnants of Christine's meal off the table. They vanished in the blink of an eye, and he seated himself gracefully on the table. Christine was about to answer, when something seemed to occur to Erik. "Ah! But I have forgotten! Was the soup to your liking, Christine? If you should prefer it, Erik can easily obtain whatever food you desire. You must understand that he does not have much cause to cook, so he apologizes if the soup was less than perfect."

Erik awaited Christine's answer with an odd sort of hopefulness. She shook her head, and his body language showed disappointment. _Oh, no, he misinterpreted me!_ "No, I don't mean that it was bad! I mean than you don't need to worry, because the soup was fine. Really," she said quickly.

He studied her, as if she would reveal the truth if he stared at her for long enough. And maybe she would have, if she had lied. Finally, he looked away. "That is good," he said simply. Erik rose from the table and began to move in the direction of the door.

"Wait!" Christine called. He stopped, and looked back at her. She could imagine him raising an eyebrow behind his mask. "You...you said..." Her voice faltered. She cleared her throat and tried again. "You mentioned helping me remember?"

"Yes, Erik knows your past," he replied slowly. "But he is not sure that Christine will believe him. You do not seem to trust me anymore," he said.

Christine paused. It was true, she didn't quite trust him. However, she had no real reason to not trust him either, save for his strange appearance."I will decide on that _after_ I hear what you have to tell me," she declared, rising from the couch. Erik gestured for her to walk ahead of him, and she did, holding herself up high. Christine's heart was beating quickly, and she tried to force it to slow. Excitement and misgivings alternated in her mind, until she temporarily silenced her doubts by reassuring herself that she didn't _have _to believe Erik's stories, just listen.

Following behind her, Erik was thankful for the mask. She could not see his smile, and his nervous hands went unnoticed, for she remained focused on what was in front of her.


	5. Chapter 4

**RS: **Took a while with this, since I kept rewriting the last three-quarters of it. Anyway, the last two week were rather busy for me, since I had a whole bunch of rehearsals and homework, plus a concert. Hopefully I'll get the next chapters out faster. Even if I don't manage to get one out once a week, I'm at least hoping for once every three weeks. Terribly sorry for any mistakes, I did most of the writing for this chapter at night after my homework was done.

* * *

After some moments, Christine had to let Erik take the lead, since she wasn't sure where they were going. He led her into a what looked like a strange cross between a study and a bedroom. It was surprisingly well-lit compared to what she had seen of the rest of the house. She paused uncertainly, looking from the uncomfortable-looking mattress to the desk to Erik.

"Ah, yes, Erik has moved into this study for the time being. I guessed that you would prefer to have a room to yourself, with your memory being gone," he explained casually, picking a stack of papers off of the desk.

"Thank you, that was quite considerate of you," she said graciously, hiding her shock with surprising ease. _I should think that sharing a room with a man is something I would always prefer not to do, regardless of my health!_

Erik held the stack of papers out in front of her. "Before I tell you anything, I think it would be better to see if you can bring your memory back yourself."

She took the stack from him and flipped through the pages, feeling rather upset when no sudden realization struck her. They were beautiful sketches of her, singing on a stage- why, that was the Opera Garnier! And though they made her smile, she could not remember. The smile slowly faded, and she handed them back with a sigh. "No, I cannot remember," she said sadly.

Erik sighed. "Ah, well. I suppose it is story time, then!" he said, clapping his hands together. "Please, make yourself comfortable, Christine."

She looked around the room again, finding that the only comfortable place to sit was the mattress. Christine wondered for a moment if Erik would mind her moving the papers off of the chair by the desk, before deciding that the mattress was not that bad of a seat. Setting herself down on the edge of the mattress, Christine folded her hands on her knees, and looked up at Erik. The masked man was at his desk, rummaging through some of the sheets. Something metallic shifted and reflected the light back, causing Christine to blink in surprise. Once her eyes settled back in, she saw Erik approaching her. Before she could shift to the corner, Erik sat down at a distance far enough to be proper, but close enough to make Christine want to shift away just slightly.

The man either did notice her discomfort or ignored it and began his tale without any sort of introduction.

"Music, Christine, is what brought you here to France. I may not have lived your early life with you, but I remember much of what you told me." He stole a quick glance over to Christine. "You lived with your father and traveled Sweden, singing and playing the violin. You adored each other, and played from town to town simply for the sake of making music. When he died, you were distressed and stopped singing as you once did. At your caretaker's insistence, you studied at the Conservatory and earned yourself a small role in the chorus of the opera, where I entered your life."

Something about his voice was different than it had been before... It was still beautiful, yes, but in a different way. Christine's mind was becoming foggy, and it was suddenly harder for her to focus on more than one thing at once. Erik's voice was demanding all of her attention, and she accepted the words far more easily than she would have liked. Erik noticed this and smiled behind his mask.

Oh, he had never done anything quite on this scale before, it was true. He had, however, enjoyed tricking some of the lesser royals in Persia into believing a multitude of different things about each other. A few words, coupled with his hypnotic voice, could set them on each other for ages. Erik hadn't done anything so drastic as rewriting a person's memory, of course. It had always been small things, details that seemed insignificant at first, such as a small, unpaid debt that had never really existed, but in the end proved to be quite powerful. Surely, with Christine's memory as the blank slate that it was, Erik could tweak some... unfavorable moments to suit him.

"I heard what no one else did. Everyone passed you off as relatively talentless, but not I! Not your Erik. I heard your potential, and I approached you and learned why your voice was not as magnificent as it should have been: You were still mourning your father. I could not let such talent go to waste, so I helped relieve some of your grief. How, you ask? Why, by singing, of course. I sang to you, and you declared that I must be the Angel of Music of your father's tales! Now, of course, I am not an angel, nor did you believe that I was. You meant that I was _like _some sort of savior for your music who came at one of the lowest periods of your life, and all to help you reach greatness no human had ever dreamed of," Erik declared. Another look at Christine, with her glazed eyes, told him that all that _he _had ever dreamed of was about to come true.

"The lessons had to be a secret. Why? Ah, yes, I haven't told you yet- the managers and Erik... we had a minor disagreement that became a major one, and I knew that if they heard that your teacher was I, then they would never let you sing on the stage. So imagine the city's surprise when Carlotta- she was the Prima Donna, Christine- when Carlotta fell ill and you took over and surpassed her in every respect! Of course, you attracted the attention of one of our patrons immediately..." Here, Erik's voice lost some of its hypnotic quality for a moment, giving way to bitterness. He caught himself almost as soon as it happened, however, and continued on.

"His name was Raoul de Chagny. A viscount who you once knew in Sweden. But do not worry yourself over him! You met with him a few times, each time trying to tell him that music was all you wanted. Oh, he was a persistent one," Erik very nearly spat. "I suggested you write a letter, so that he would not be able to interrupt or twist your words before they left your mouth." Erik held up the page he had retrieved earlier. "I believe it is...yes, it is this one. Shall I read it to you?" Erik watched the soprano nod dazedly. Turning to the page, he began.

"_Dearest Raoul,_

_ As I have said, I have not forgotten you, who rescued my scarf from the sea those years ago. But I have never said that I wish for you to continue to be in my life. It is not at all a good match, and I'm sure your brother agrees._

_ You may be wondering why I should be the one to protest. After all, I am a performer, an actress. Most would think that I would be the one desperate for friends in the nobility. Oh, but my friend, I have found something so much better than status or wealth or love: music! I do not know myself when I sing! How could I ever think to devote any spare moment of my life to anything other than music? You have not heard an Angel sing to you, so I do not believe that you would understand. I think it best that you leave what memories you have of me as simply memories.  
_

_ Your friend,_

_ Christine"_

Erik finished the reading while carefully watching Christine's face. This was unnoticeable to her, due to the lighting of the room. Without darkness, his eyes were dark. It was impossible for her to tell where he was looking, meaning that she had no reason to mask her expression. She showed no signs of remembering the real context of her letter. No recollection of the day when her Angel had angrily demanded that she do whatever was necessary to keep Raoul, and any other man, out of her life. Looking back, that event might have been what triggered a small but new fear in Christine. She had never been afraid of her Angel before that day.

It was quite fortunate for Erik that she no longer remembered it.

"Quite simply, your old acquaintance did not take the hint, and he would not leave you alone. You hid away with me for some weeks. Ah, you are wondering about Erik now. My mask, no doubt," he observed.

This was the moment he feared. It would not do to deceive Christine again. Her memory may have faded, but her inquisitive personality remained. If he was as vague as he was before, she would remove his mask and he would have accomplished nothing. On the other hand, he did not wish to frighten her away with the truth... It was this detail that proved to be the most difficult when he was busy editing Christine's history.

"Erik..." he stopped himself, before concluding that there was no better way to explain the mask. "Erik has suffered injuries to his face. They are not very pleasing to the eye, and you agreed to that when we met. Therefore, I chose to wear this mask." There. It was enough information to hopefully satisfy her curiosity, while at the same time lacking the details that would disgust her. Erik made his delivery as casual as possible, trying to draw as little attention as possible to his face. It seemed to work, for she did not look as if she wanted any more answers.

"And now, we continue our story. It had been quite some time now, and you had grown weary of Raoul's advances. Yes, you were fond of him, for he had been a close friend in your childhood, but you had no interest in marrying him. You decided to flee when he would least expect it- during the finale of Faust! And I came with you, on a different horse. It rained, and there was no village or town nearby to stop it. The sun was setting, and your carriage lost its grip on the road. I was unable to stop you from crashing into the side of the road, and for that I am sorry." And he was. Even though he had been given such a rare opportunity because of it, it did not overshadow the fact that Christine had been hurt. "You were unconscious, and I took your and your horse to this house, which I rented for a few months time to give you time to recover," he said.

Christine thought hard about what she had just heard. Gradually, she gained more control over her mind as the silence dragged on. What he had told her was logical to her. The letter had been written by her, of that she was certain. While he had been talking, a few faint images flashed quickly through her mind's eye, and she was almost sure they were memories that matched his words.

Looking up at Erik, she smiled. "Thank you, Erik. I would like to reflect on what you said alone for a while."

Nodding, Erik rose and directed her to her room. She slipped through the door, locked it, and laid down on the bed, fragments of melodies playing through her mind.


End file.
